The Elegy of Sun and Lake
by Toner Martini
Summary: After fleeing to his home of France, Lancelot is attacked by Gawain who is hellbent on avenging the deaths of his siblings. What was once strong companionship now crumbles into hatred and conflict in the final days of the Knights of the Round Table.
1. Chapter 1: The Siege of Castle Benwick

Chapter 1:

The Siege of Castle Benwick

The charred pungence of soot began to creep into the forests and the faint echoes of battle cries and clashing steel permeated the once gentle ocean breeze of Benwick. The coastal kingdom in Southern Gaul had become a new home for the despairs of war.

"I want ladders on the southeast walls as soon as we can ready them! Take two knights to clear the path, Benwick troops will try to divert your advance away from the castle!" As the acting general of the siege, Sir Gawain had been shouting orders to Artoria's men since sunrise. Castle Benwick had proven to be much more formidable than he had anticipated. Their difficulty gaining the upper hand began to concern Gawain, especially considering "he" had yet to show himself on the battlefield.

The bodies of slain infantry were thrown from the walls, toppling onto their former comrades who still struggled to make their way up the scaffolding. As the fruitless battle drew on, Gawain had struggled more and more to maintain order in the pulsating mass of men that swarmed and pressed upon Castle Benwick. His blood continued to boil.

"Damn you, Lancelot…" Gawain muttered sorely. Though he shut his eyes in remorse, he was unable to stop his ears from being battered by the sounds of battle. He remained this way for several seconds, then with his infamous blazing passion reignited, he reared his horse Gringolet and charged directly into the carnage.

As Gawain rode forth into the fray he parted the sea of foot soldiers before him. Upon arriving at the main gates, the infantry wordlessly ceased the hammering of their siege weapons and turned to their leader.

"Lancelot!" Gawain cried out to the castle, "Come out here you damn coward! Join your men and fight me head on!"

Alongside his cousins Sir Bors and Sir Lionel, Sir Lancelot had been coordinating the defense from within a turret atop the main wall. Even though the sounds of war had ceaselessly assaulted his ears, he could hear the words of the man he once called his brother-in-arms with excruciating clarity.

Gawain shouted once more, "If a man a great as yourself feels he must cower behind his walls, then you have truly fallen further than I had once thought!" At this the once proud knight had become unable to quell his guilt any longer.

"Bors..." Lancelot said as he turned to his cousin. Without any more to be said, Sir Bors nodded and placed his helm upon his head and left the turret.

The gates slowly opened in front of Gawain to reveal a fully armored knight, though he did not bear the coat of arms he had expected to see. _Ermine, three bends gules._ It was Sir Bors, a winner of the Grail Quest alongside Sir Percival and Sir Galahad, and the only one to return alive. Gawain furrowed his brow upon being declined his desired opponent.

The two leaned into their saddles and accelerated. The thunder of their steeds' hooves upon the bloodied mud gave the soldiers of both factions pause to observe. Bors lowered his lance too early so that Gawain saw he was aiming for the inside of his left shoulder. He raised his shield to receive the blow and then lowered his own lance moments later. In an instant Bors' lance shattered upon Gawain's shield and Bors was thrown from his mount. A powerful blow to his lower ribs had dented his armor and left him gasping for air as he skidded through the dirt. Bors struggled to stand back up as his throat began to fill with blood.

At this Sir Lionel readied himself in an infuriated haste. Seeing his younger brother disposed of so mercilessly had thrown him into a fury and he quickly lost what little respect he had left for Gawain.

After the joust, Gawain had resumed his former position directly in front of the gate, maintaining an unbreakable stare at the tower which Lancelot stood in. He ignored Bors' writhing in the mud as he clambered up against the castle walls. His gaze turned back to the gates upon hearing the trodding of another horse from within the castle. Seconds later, Lionel had come into view as he turned a corner and charged straight through the gates.

"What a pitiful state you must be in, sending others out to defend yourself." Gawain muttered to himself as he began his charge to meet his opponent. Lionel's frenzy had left him in a reckless state and he had neglected to hold his shield high enough. Gawain immediately took notice of this and aimed for his collar. Seconds before Lionel had even fully lowered his lance, Gawain had plunged his own into the armor below Lionel's chin and launched him into the earth.

Gawain once again returned his passionate gaze to the tower, indifferent to his opponents' suffering as Lionel painfully carried Bors back into the castle. He had forgotten his duties in orchestrating the siege and the men around the castle became increasingly disoriented and chaotic. As the shouting around him swelled, Gawain continued to watch the tower, certain that Lancelot was staring back at him through the slim openings in the stone turret.


	2. Chapter 2: The Chains of Arondight

Chapter 2:

The Chains of Arondight

For six whole weeks this scene had repeated itself, Gawain remaining undefeated. The endurance of one Knight of the Round Table had been enough to outlast the might of an entire faction of knights whose patience had begun to run thin with their leader.

"Sire," said Sir Blamore, "As of today Sir Bleoberis is the most fit for a joust... Though his shoulder is still healing from his tilt four days prior." Blamore averted his eyes from Lancelot as he stepped into the room. Seeing their leader sulking and wallowing in guilt every day while a single knight chipped away at their numbers was unimaginably demoralizing. Lancelot understood this, yet he had been unable to bring himself to do anything but wish that Gawain and Artoria would just leave him and his family be.

"Sire," Blamore said again, though now with a quivering voice, "The other knights and I had been talking recently…" Lancelot lifted his head and looked at Blamore. The light from the window revealed that his eyes had become sunken and glazed and his now long and tattered hair had remained uncut since the civil war had begun. Blamore shuddered when he saw his cousin in this decrepit state, but he had already begun to speak once more.

"At this point we think it would be best to end this conflict swiftly. That is to say, to remove Gawain from battle." Blamore had once again removed his gaze from his cousin and prepared to make his most difficult request.

"Gawain has bested all of us more than once, Sire. You are the only one that can challenge him. Surely you must have realized this-" Lancelot stood up and grabbed his sword Arondight. While inspecting his weapon he reflected on part of the Round Table oath Guinevere had composed; _Knights of the Round Table were forbidden to fight one another_. In this moment he remembered the instant he plunged the very blade before him into Sir Agravain and the fury that burned in his eyes as his life was extinguished. He remembered the horror and panic in the eyes of Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth in the moment he swung Arondight through their bodies. He had killed three of Gawain's younger siblings, and he knew Gawain wouldn't yield until either one of them was dead. Yet he wanted to believe the pain would disappear. Lancelot fetched a chain from the wall and began to wrap it around Arondight's crossguard.

"Thank you Blamore. Have the men ready my horse." Lancelot said with languid remorse and continued to ready his armor.


	3. Chapter 3: The Lamentation of the King

Chapter 3:

The Lamentation of the King

Unlike most mornings during the siege, Artoria had ridden out from camp with Gawain that day. She had grown increasingly disheartened ever since Gawain refused offers of peace and initiated the conflict, though she hid her weariness well. Artoria firmly maintained the placid expression of just indifference as she had trained herself to. She reaffirmed herself that there was nothing politically wrong with her nephew's actions, nor were they unjustified. Lancelot had slain Gawain's sister and brothers as well as betrayed the state. She understood that, yet she was having growing difficulty submerging her turbulent pangs of grief.

As she gazed at Castle Benwick her thoughts turned to her wife, Guinevere, and she became more distraught with her contemplations. Though they were unable to love one another, at least not romantically, the two supported each other through the unfortunate circumstances that the political marriage had subjected them to. Even though she was thankful Lancelot rescued her wife from the stake's inferno, as was lawful punishment for adulterers, she reprimanded herself for feeling such relief.

_A king must be impartial. I am a vessel of my country's will and protector of its people. _She focused on this over and over again, trying in vain to drown her emotions. And then the gates opened.

Gawain furrowed his brow and tightened his grip around his lance. It had been the first time they had seen him since he fled England. His armor and blade had been stained an ominous purple hue and he now donned a matching helm with a long blue plume. Lancelot could not bear to show his face.


	4. Chapter 4: The Numeral of the Saint

Chapter 4:

The Numeral of the Saint

The clash had been continuing unrelentlessly for three grueling hours so far. On the first pass, with their lances lowered and their hearts ablaze, the two knights had struck each other which such monstrous force that each had had broken the other steed's spine. Wordlessly, the two had dismounted from their now deceased companions and drew their swords.

Lancelot's swordsmanship was unparalleled, every knight knew this undeniable truth either by gossip or firsthand experience. At first Lancelot thought his superior skill and technique would be more than enough to overcome Gawain's immense strength, as it had in all his past tournament battles. However, something was different about his opponent.

As the sun gradually rose across the morning sky, Lancelot was shocked to notice Gawain's strength steadily grow. Rather than draining his opponent's fortitude, each well placed slash and blow to his body would instead be returned with an even stronger parry or counterattack.

Gawain seldom tapped into this latent ability of his. Though it was a miracle he contrived from the blessing of the priest who baptized him, he considered it an unfair advantage in an honorable bout. But there was no honor in this fight, only the burning flames of vengeance. The sun was now directly overhead, shining upon the field where the two were embroiled in their duel. Feeling both his vitality and tenacity boil, Gawain prepared himself for an onslaught. His sword Galatine felt lighter and warmer in his hand, and he watched as the edges grew sharper.

Leaping forward with a swift downward stroke, Gawain struck Lancelot's pauldron before he could lift Arondight to parry and ran Galatine down through his breastplate. It was the first effective injury Lancelot had received in years.

He quickly recovered and prepared himself to receive the next strike. Gawain immediately followed up with a horizontal slash from the opposite direction. Lancelot saw how telegraphed Gawain's movement was and positioned himself to bind his opponent's blade. Lancelot met Galatine from below and attempted to divert the momentum to the upper-outside line. This would have positioned Arondight above Gawain's guard for a clear strike to his collar, however Lancelot found he was unable to lift Galatine even an inch, despite having a favorable fulcrum. His armor dented and cracked from the impact and Lancelot winced and withdrew.

Within the small amount of time allotted by breaking distance, Lancelot switched his strategy to a purely defensive style. Arondight was a holy sword as well and had the ability to receive limitless blows without damage, and this fight quickly became one of the few occasions where that quality was imperative. Lancelot reflected, diverted, and avoided each strike Gawain made for the next three hours until he noticed his inhuman strength fully wane.

In this instant Lancelot immediately resumed the offensive, catching Gawain off-guard amongst his ferocious haste. Lancelot quickly closed the distance in the middle of Gawain's large windup and swiftly thrusted Arondight into the side of his forehead. Gawain crumpled to the ground.

The wound was not mortally deep, Lancelot had been sure to hold back. He turned around and began to walk back to Castle Benwick.

"Why do you retreat?" Gawain groaned as he lay on the ground, his fatigue finally catching up with him.

"I won." Said Lancelot, still turned around, unwilling to see his old friend in such a state.

"No, you haven't won yet. I'm still breathing. And as long as I draw breath, this fight will not end. So get back here and end it, or next time we meet I will!" Gawain bleated and realized he was now unable to stand.

"I never smite a felled knight." Lancelot said achingly and resumed walking back to Castle Benwick.

None of Artoria's men dared speak or move as he walked passed them. The tumult of the siege had faded during their duel, and now the sun was setting. He walked passed Artoria, her expression hollow and her eyes struggling to focus on the scene in front of her.

"Please, return home. You see now that there is nothing you can do." Lancelot said to his former king and left. None could see the tears under the dark purple helm.


	5. Chapter 5: The Shores of Dover

Chapter 5:

The Shores of Dover

Even from the medic's tent, Gawain continued to act as commander. A week later, when he had felt well enough to stand and ride, he hastily returned to Castle Benwick's gates. He reissued his challenges to the Knight of the Lake and another joust had followed. This time Gawain was easily dismounted. The two fought with sword once more, Gawain now spewing more ravenous insults, and Lancelot bade his time behind his unbreakable defense until the sun's light had ebbed. He struck Gawain in the same wound as before.

Yet another week passed of Gawain bitterly recovering. For the third time, the Knight of the Sun issued his challenge. As they fought, Lancelot now pleaded to his former companion to cease his searing madness. He had grown even weaker than the last time they fought, and as the sun fell below the trees, Gawain was once again slashed aside his head.

Three days before Gawain planned to fight yet again, the King received word of her son's betrayal. Within a day's time, Artoria's army was crossing the English Channel.

After repelling Mordred's forces on the shores of Dover, Artoria desperately searched the field for her nephew. When he was nowhere to be found, she turned to his moored vessel with anxiety in her heart.

He lay in bed below the deck, the sun's rays barely seeping through the gaps in the wood above. His narrow eyes held a weakly flickering glow underneath his bandaged forehead. Artoria knelt at his bedside and comforted him with bitter praise. He said he had found forgiveness in his heart for Lancelot, and he asked his King for ink and parchment. With the last of his strength, his final strokes were not of the hatred of a blade, but of the forgiveness of a quill. He pleaded to the man he once burned to kill to instead come to his King's rescue. When he was done, the sun set upon the horizon, melting into the gently caressing waves.

Upon landing, Lancelot and his family were not met with the fury of Mordred's forces, only the serenity of empty shores. The people of Dover informed him of what had happened. He prayed at Gawain's grave, as he had asked him to do in his letter, and emancipating forgiveness coursed from his eyes. He then shed his armor for the clothes of hermitage, spending the last seven years of his life as a holy man alongside Sir Bedivere, until he finally starved himself in penance. He asked for his body not to lay in the same soil as his King and lover, he felt he was too unworthy. Instead he was returned to his castle, and the once abandoned Joyous Gard was reunited with its master, the two forever still as the waters upon a windless lake.

In the days of Arthur, order was born from chaos and prospered until the bloomings of peace wilted once more into disarray. Such was the unstoppable cycle of history. And it was as though the fading land of the Round Table became but a flickering candle in the wind.


End file.
